As I was having breakfast in my Christchurch suburban dining room on Monday morning (August 1), I heard a loud but indeterminate noise (I don’t wear my hearing aids when I’m by myself in silence). I actually thought it was a quake, but as there was no shaking, I assumed it came from the noisy construction site two doors away. So, I ignored it and carried on reading the paper over breakfast.
I then had a sense that somebody was nearby. Upon looking up I was surprised (to put it very mildly) to see two cops, with rifles at the ready, peering through the windows on the back door. I thought: “This is exciting. Why spend good money to see ‘Muru’ when you can get it delivered to your doorstep, free of charge” (but these cops didn’t have the ninja uniforms as seen in the movie).
I opened the door. Two cops with rifles rapidly became four cops with rifles facing me (the next door neighbour later told me he saw three cop cars in the street). It’s worth noting that although they all had a gun, none of them was wearing a mask.
“Can I help you?”, I asked. The one in charge said they were looking for Mr So and So. I replied that I’d never heard of him and they had the wrong address.
But wait, there’s more. The cop then said. “Mr So and So is a gang member. He was bailed to this address, he is under curfew at this address, and now he’s wanted”.
I reiterated that I’d never heard of this fellow, let alone provided him with a bail address (I don’t know any gang members. Well, not since I worked at the railways decades ago). I said that Mr Gangster had pulled a shrewdy on the judge, and voluntarily showed the cop written proof of my ID and ownership of the property (the power bill was the closest document to hand). I told them that I had owned and occupied this place for 40 years and had never heard of the fellow throughout that time.
It was all very chatty and polite. The cops could obviously see that their wanted man had pulled a swifty, plus I am a property-owning old white male. They didn’t point their guns at me, nor did they ask to come inside (and I didn’t invite them). They took my word that my sleeping wife was the only other person in the house.
I asked if they were responsible for the loud noise I’d heard, and they said that was them pounding on the front door (plus the bedroom window, apparently). I told them that there also been pounding on the front door and bedroom window after dark on the previous Friday night, which I’d chosen to ignore (assuming it to be somebody at the wrong address). The cop said it was probably police doing a bail curfew check.
The lead cop wrote a statement in his notebook and asked me to sign it, saying that I’d owned and occupied the place for 40 years, did not know the fellow they are seeking, and had not given him permission to use it as a bail address. Then they left.
Throughout the decades I’ve had plenty of cops on various doorsteps. But never with weapons, let alone weapons drawn. The only times I’ve been confronted by men in uniforms with rifles have been in places like the Philippines and Belfast.
Here’s the punchline. One of the cops said: “As I was coming up the drive, I was was thinking ‘this doesn’t look like a gang house’”. When it comes time to sell here, I must remember to instruct the real estate agent to highlight that as its unique selling point.
A flying start to the week.